The cast was assembled; all the players in his life, right there before him.
Bishop slept on the bed, surrounded by the machines and whatnot. Andrew and Viveca hovered on one side of the bed, Arnetta on the other. Eric and his wife, Isabella, huddled in the far corner, murmuring together.
Walking into the room with them together already, he felt that nose-pressed-up-against-the-glass sensation of non-belonging he’d felt almost since he had memory.
He didn’t belong at the sickbed, or at Heather Hill. Nor did he belong in prison. Hell, why not face the big picture? He didn’t belong anywhere on earth that he’d yet discovered, and he was sick of it.
On the other hand…he was also sick of his woe-is-me routine.
He’d had a few rough patches, yeah, but today was a new day and he’d always believed in engineering his own fate. His relationship with his father was in the toilet, but he could change that. He didn’t have a place where he belonged, but he could change that. He didn’t feel like a Warner, but that would change, too.
He wasn’t going to sulk his way through the rest of his life.
So. No time like the present to start sunny-siding things.
Shooting a quick sidelong glance at Arianna, who dimpled in sympathy, he squared his shoulders and started acting like a grown-up.
“How is he?” he asked Andrew.
Andrew gave him one of those cool-eyed assessments. “Groggy. Stable.”
Nodding, Dawson turned to Viveca, who was a stone-cold looker. Casual in her tank top and cargo pants, she had a curvy body that had probably dropped Andrew straight to his knees, and a keen intelligence shining in her dark eyes. He knew instinctively that this woman didn’t suffer fools. She also kept Andrew on his toes.
“I’m Dawson Reynolds,” he told her, extending his hand.
“Viveca Warner.” She shook with a firm grip and studied him with a reporter’s open curiosity. “You look like Reynolds,” she said, angling her head for a closer look and ignoring Andrew’s low rumble of displeasure. “You’ve got his nose and mouth.”
That was something he’d never heard before. “Is that good or bad?”
Viveca flashed him a wry grin. “We’ll see.”
Moving on, he focused on Eric’s wife, who was shorter and plumper in an all-American-girl type of way. Up until now, he hadn’t been aware that orange and pink went together, but something about her flowery dress suited her sunny smile as she stuck out her hand.
“I’m Isabella,” she told him. “Welcome to the family.”
“For God’s sake,” Eric muttered.
“Ah.” Dawson divided his gaze between the two of them. “Thanks.”
And then, with no further warning, she pulled him in for a rib-shattering hug. Under normal circumstances, he’d give himself a moment to enjoy close body contact with a beautiful woman, but the warning glint in Eric’s eye told him not to appreciate anything about Isabella too much.
So he pulled back and smiled. “I appreciate it.”
The introductions and niceties thus observed, he nodded once to Arnetta, who still looked dazed and confused, and then focused on Andrew, the Warner leader. “So,” he said.
Andrew folded his arms across his chest and raised his brows, imperious through and through. It was funny to think that they shared a father. What did they have in common that Dawson hadn’t yet realized? Ears? Teeth? Arrogance?
“So,” Andrew replied.
“So,” Dawson continued, “I know we’re not going to be BFFs or anything—”
Andrew snorted with unmistakable agreement.
“—but we are half brothers—”
“We’ll need a paternity test to settle that issue.”
“—and we both want what’s best for Bishop.”
“Do we?”
Okay. So much for extending the olive branch of peace; Dawson was starting to get seriously pissed off. What was with the belligerent tone? Could the brother not even meet him a quarter of the way? Would that be so hard?
Dawson planted his feet wide, ready for another fight if another fight was coming, and tried again even though he longed to pop some sense into Andrew. Part of the problem was that they had, in fact, been best friends back in the day, or so he’d thought. The forever part had long ago fallen by the wayside, but wasn’t there anything salvageable from the relationship?
“Yeah,” he said, trying not to sneer. “We both want what’s best for Bishop, and I don’t want to argue with you over his sickbed, Scooter—” Andrew’s narrowed eyes told him he didn’t like the use of his childhood nickname, but screw him “—so maybe we should work on a truce.”
There. He’d made his peace offering, and he’d meant it. If Andrew wanted to spit in his face in front of this audience, then that was his choice. But no one could say Dawson hadn’t tried, and tried hard.
He waited.
Andrew glowered. Eric leaned against the far wall and studied his nails, looking bored. Isabella coughed nervously. Arnetta smoothed Bishop’s sheets over his chest. At Dawson’s side, Arianna was absolutely still, as though her own fate hung in the balance.
Finally, Andrew peeled his fierce glare away from Dawson and looked to his wife. Viveca gave him a tiny wink and tilted her head exactly one millimeter in Dawson’s direction. This seemed to turn the tide, because Andrew rolled his eyes and looked back to Dawson.
“Truce.” Andrew’s face couldn’t have been sourer if he’d drunk a lemon-pickle juice cocktail with a vinegar chaser.
“Great.”
“Great.”
They stared laser strikes at each other, neither blinking.
This might have gone on for the rest of the day, but Arianna emitted a discreet cough that sounded an awful lot like the word shake.
He got the message and stuck his hand out, extending it over Bishop’s prone body on the bed. Andrew eyed him for a minute and then reached out.
They shook.
That was extraordinary enough. But then Andrew shocked the hell out of him. “Why don’t you, ah, stay at the house while you’re in town? Bishop would want that.”
Dawson prided himself on his poker-faced arctic coolness in most situations, but his jaw still hit the floor. Collecting himself took a while; his thoughts took another couple beats to crystallize.
This wasn’t the most gracious invitation he’d ever received, and he was betting Andrew planned to count the silver before and after Dawson’s visit. Another issue was Dawson’s raw pride, which demanded that he throw Andrew’s charitable offer back in his face and tell him to go screw himself. Twice.
On the other hand…
He’d waited for this moment. To be welcome. To belong. To have a place.
And it wasn’t about the house. It was about the feeling and the need, much as he wished he didn’t need a damn thing in life.
Not that he was fooling himself. He wasn’t truly welcome any more than poison ivy was welcome at a Boy Scout campout. And more than likely, they were only offering him the crawl space over the garage or a corner of the wine cellar in the basement.
But it was a start.
And Arianna was staying at Heather Hill. God knew he wanted to be as close to her as he could get.
So he swallowed his squawking pride and didn’t try to block his unexpected smile. “I’ll do that,” he told Andrew. “Thanks.”
Chapter 9
At Heather Hill that evening, Dawson, who’d been showing more and more signs of civility as the day went on, as though he had not, in fact, been raised by cursed and rabid wolves, escorted Arianna to the door of her cottage, where she was staying.
Shadows had lengthened across the porch, which was now a cool mecca against the sun’s remaining heat. She almost wished they could spend more time together. Maybe sit on the wicker love seat and just hold hands, decompressing together after their traumatic day, or maybe go for a dip in the pool.
It would be so nice.
On the other hand, she could hardly relax when that disquieti
ng light had begun to glow so brightly in his eyes. Now that Bishop was out of the woods, she knew her reprieve was up and Dawson wanted to press his case. She tried to be indifferent, but the responsive swoop of pteranodon-sized butterflies in her belly didn’t help.
At the front door, she gave him an impersonal smile and kept her voice brisk. “Thanks for walking me down. You didn’t have to.”
That dark gaze held hers. “And you didn’t have to take me back to the hotel to grab my bags and then bring me here.”
“Well, I—” Fishing her keys out of her bag, she fumbled for the right one, dropped them and cursed her nervous clumsiness when he picked them up. It was no surprise at all when he used the opportunity to shift closer. “Thanks.” She took the keys and unlocked the door as fast as she could. “I’m trusting you not to cause a fight up at the big house.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it. I wish you’d have dinner with me.”
Damn it. They’d covered this ground already in the car. “I told you. No thanks.”
“What about breakfast tomorrow before we go back to the hosp—”
“No.”
“Maybe we can just sit out here and talk, order a pizza—”
“No.” God. His patient reasonableness was seriously making her crazy. Why wouldn’t he drop it? She had the terrible certainty that he’d stand there and methodically ask her to share every meal between now and Thanksgiving with him if she didn’t make her escape. “I told you—we don’t have anything to talk about.”
“I think we need to talk about last night—”
“Fine.” She let the screen door bang shut, because clearly she wouldn’t escape until they had this stupid and pointless conversation. “Last night. Best sex of my life. Then you walked out on me, and I got the message loud and clear: you’re not up for any kind of relationship that even peripherally requires you to think about the woman’s feelings. So let’s leave it at that, shall we? Thanks for screwing me so great last night. Have a nice life.”
Propelled by her anger, she wheeled around to leave and got nowhere.
“You may have been screwing.” His gentle hand on her arm kept her close. “But I was making love.”
That was a low blow designed to hit any woman squarely in her foolish heart, and it annoyed her even though she knew better than to believe him. “How touching. Too bad you blew it.”
“I did mess up by leaving last night,” he said evenly. “But I was coming back for you. And that’s what I would have done later this morning if Bishop hadn’t gotten sick.”
“And how were you going to find me? Telepathy?”
Judging by the irritated twist of his lips, he didn’t appreciate the sarcasm. He reached into his pocket and produced a royal-blue something, which he held up between his first two fingers.
Intrigued despite herself, she snatched it and glared down.
Oh, God.
It was a cocktail napkin from the party last night. With her cell phone number on it. She stared at it, then at him. Her brain, meanwhile, left the building. “What’s this?” she asked blankly.
His eyes gleamed with predatory satisfaction. “It’s a little piece of information I paid a hundred dollars for last night. One of the party planner’s minions checked the clipboard for me and passed it along.”
Well, so what if he’d taken a little initiative? She would not be impressed. “It’s hard to get good help these days.”
“Seeing my father threw me out of whack last night, and I needed to get it together. I wasn’t ready to explain it all to you.” He paused, a flush creeping up his neck to his cheeks. “I’m not proud of it.”
Yeah. She could see that, and also what it cost him to admit it to her.
“But I wasn’t about to let you get away just because I had a few issues I needed to work out.”
“Why didn’t you try to explain?”
“Explain what?” His palms-up gesture all but screamed frustration. “What? We’ve already established that you’re too good for me—”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“—and that you could do better than me. What was I supposed to do? Hit you with the information that I was a convicted rapist who spent years in prison? Or should I have started with my other shameful secret, which is that my birth father pawned me off on my adoptive father, both of whom washed their hands of me? That’s the kind of thing you want to discuss at the pasta bar in the middle of a party with the fantastic woman you just met, isn’t it?”
Last night wasn’t the time for all that, no, but that wasn’t the issue here, and she wasn’t going to let her empathy sidetrack her. “Do you ever get sick of yourself and your woe-is-me routine?”
His lips peeled back from his teeth in a close cousin to a snarl, but she wouldn’t pull her punches, not when he needed to hear this and she needed to say it.
Using her whiniest voice, she went for the jugular. “Poor me, I went to prison. Poor me, my father hates me. Poor me, I’m not good enough for anything. Does all that bitterness ever get on your nerves? Because it’s sure gotten on mine.”
Cursing, he looked away, back toward the main house, wondering why he’d come down here, no doubt. By his sides, his big hands clenched and unclenched into bigger fists, and if he’d lunged for her throat and begun to throttle her, she wouldn’t’ve been the least surprised.
But then he did surprise her.
“Yeah,” he said, turning back. “I’m sick of it. And I’m done with it.”
Oh, how she wished that were true. Because this one man had more raw potential, more character and strength than probably anyone she’d ever met. If only he knew it. If only she could tell him. But the last thing she needed to do, ever, was open the door for him to come into her life and hurt her worse than he already had.
What was the saying? Fool me once and all that? Well, he’d fooled her once, and one chance was all he’d get with her. She’d had enough of men who said one thing and did another, thanks.
Besides. Her life was currently as big a quagmire as his was, and neither one of them was ready for a relationship as complex as the one they seemed to be developing. Sex was a big part of it, yeah, but an emotional connection was growing with each second they spent together, and she couldn’t have that.
Emotional connection plus bitter bad boy equals disaster for Arianna.
No deal.
“Done with the self-pity,” she echoed. “Glad to hear it. Have a nice life.”
Again she turned to go inside, and again she got nowhere, but this was worse. This time he put his hand on hers, where it rested on the brass knob, and God, all that electric chemistry ran through her body, potent as a double shot of whiskey.
“Here’s the thing,” he said, and his low murmur made her shiver, as though he’d swirled his tongue up and down the curve of her spine. “I’m all about rebuilding things that’re broken and correcting mistakes I’ve made. I want to do that with you.”
She snatched her hand away, her growing agitation making her jittery. But he would not get to her. She wouldn’t let him. “Too late.”
Deep in his dark eyes, that quiet gleam of determination intensified. “I don’t believe that.”
“No?” Well aware that something inside her had snapped and a devastating confession was roaring up her throat, eager to be said despite all her best intentions, she didn’t bother keeping the volume down. “Well, believe this: the second I laid eyes on you, I wanted you.”
He took a sharp, surprised breath, which should have been her clue to shut the hell up, but hey, why not aim for utter and complete humiliation?
“And letting go of your hand last night was really, really hard. How ridiculous is that? But I didn’t want to let you go, and the second I did, I started aching for you.”
“Aching?” he echoed, looking stunned.
“Yeah, aching. You want to know where?”
He stilled. Waited.
Shut up, Arianna. Just shut the hell up before you make things—
“Here.” She rubbed her hand over her skirt, down between her thighs, and up over her breasts. “Here.”
He made a strangled sound and swallowed convulsively.
“And here.” She touched her heart.
“Jesus,” he muttered.
“You’re doing something to me—you affect me—and I’m not ready for it.”
Wide-eyed silence.
Brilliant, Arianna. Nothing like those soul-deep confessions to drive men away. Great. Well, time to wrap this conversation up. “You’re not going to hurt me again.”
“I don’t plan to.”
“How comforting. You didn’t plan to last night, either, did you?”
“Last night I didn’t know…” He trailed off and scrubbed his hand over his head, struggling to hold something back.
“You didn’t know what?”
Unsmiling, he met her gaze again, and there was something in his expression that was so disquieting, so relentlessly powerful and hot, that she had to put her hand on the door again or risk being bowled over backward.
“I didn’t know that I could feel this way about a woman.”
What? What did that mean? What was he telling her? “How is that?”
“Like I would crawl through lava to see her smile.”
“Don’t.” Desperate to appeal to his sense of fair play—she knew he had one buried in there somewhere—she resorted to begging. Anything to escape without further damage. “Please don’t do this to me.”
But he’d put his hands on her waist and wasn’t listening. “Arianna.”
“Don’t,” she tried again, and again after that. It didn’t work. On her third don’t, he covered her mouth with his.
What a liar she was; she knew it as soon as he kissed her. She could not shut him out of her life, even though she knew she should. She could not pretend that last night was a one-time-only occurrence. At this moment, she couldn’t even dredge up the rudiments of why she wanted to.
All she wanted was this.
His tender lips on hers, his tongue deep in her mouth and hers in his.
Croons of satisfaction vibrated in his chest, and he gripped her closer, ruining her with his urgency and his desire, making her want things that were bad for her and didn’t truly exist anyway. He wasn’t the man she needed him to be—not yet—but God, she could pretend for another minute.
Redemption's Touch (Kimani Romance) Page 10